Live Till the World Ends
by Rosaroes Crouch
Summary: Harry has been sent to Paris for his birthday by Hermione and Ron. He is looking for some soothing hapiness, yet runs into his old Potions master Severus Snape, while drinking wine at a Parisian bistro.


**Live, 'til the world ends – Part II**

Prompt:

_Paris, France. Harry, Severus. Haven't seen each other for years. They meet in a Parisian bistro._

It was a soft, warm morning in May. One of those rare days in May, and of the kinds one can only experience in exotic capitals in foreign countries. Radiant, soft sunbeams straying through sweet-smelling trees adorned with pink-coloured blossoms. Harry opened his eyes from behind his fashionably vintage Ray Ban sunglasses and took in a deep, slow breath. Paris.

For the first time in a long time, he felt at ease.

It had been years since he had even left the UK, stuck in the Ministry of Magic and to his responsible desk job, never feeling even the remote possibility of leaving. He had dreamt about it, pined for it for months – while distractedly staring at the too brightly lit computer screen. Dreams of sunlit palm trees, spicy smelling evenings and cities he could get lost in.

How easily an adult gets stuck in his own, boring ways.

It had taken Hermione and Ron and a free city trip to Paris to make Harry actually go. They had gifted him the trip for his 30th birthday, only too aware of the continuous life depression Harry was slowly slipping deeper into.

Harry smiled at the thought of his friends. Even though his life was not as exciting as it used to be, he still had his best friends.

He looked around the Avenue George V, the street on which his hotel was located. Literally around the corner from the Champs de Elysees, Harry did not need to look on a map to determine his location within the French capital.

The Hôtel Fouquet's Barrière which Hermione had booked for him, was a classic, opulently decorated hotel to say the least. Harry had almost felt guilty when he had stepped through the door with merely a carry on suitcase, amazed by the grandeur and style this place offered. His own, modest 2 bedroom flat in London was nothing compared to the fancy room he had at the hotel.

Harry wanted to saunter around Paris. No plans, no maps and definitely no direction. He just wanted to be and exist – something he felt he could only do when he was abroad. Whenever he tried to relax at home, even when he went to the countryside to visit Ron and Hermione, the stressful thoughts of his work and other responsible issues such as bills, kept haunting him. Harry couldn't just turn himself off.

He pulled out a packet of menthol Gauloises – bought the evening before at the Charles de Gaulle airport - and lit himself a cigarette. Back home he had quit a long time ago, but in Paris it seemed natural he would take up his indiscretion again.

Sunglasses and cigarette lit, Harry set out sauntering.

Through small and big streets, past touristic restaurants and shops, along small and hidden book shops and eventually along the Seine. It was a rare, unclouded day, and the sun kept warming Harry's dark hair. He was coincidentally headed for the 6th arrondissement, after sauntering alongside the Seine and its many beautiful views for a while.

Harry decided he wanted to enjoy a refreshment. The next bistro-cum-bar he walked past looked quite empty. A few tables and mis-matched chairs were haphazardly thrown outside, functioning like a makeshift terrace. A few lonesome readers sat on some of the small chairs, all hastily inhaling grey clouds of nicotine. The terrace was located around the corner from the Seine and if Harry chose his seat wisely, he could sneak a peek of the soft-flowing water and the many people walking alongside it. Holding hands, taking pictures.

Just when he was considering walking along, a puffy bald man with a grey moustache came outside and saw Harry. He immediately beckoned for Harry to sit down.

"Monsieur! Bienvenu! Sit down, sit down. I will get you a drink." His French accent was as thick as maple syrup.

The man had such short legs, that his rounded torso almost looked a ball, balancing merely on his two, also round, feet.

"Je voudrais un vin rouge, s'il vous plait," said Harry in his best French. He had enjoyed learning a language or two during his apprentice-traineeship at the Ministry.

The man smiled, did a quaint little bow in order to excuse himself and hurried back into the bistro.

Harry sat himself down at the far back of the terrace, leaning against the stone walls of the building and enjoying the sun with a view of the Seine across the road. He let out a deep sigh and pulled out another cigarette.

He had actually planned on buying a book during his sauntering – something he could carry around Paris and lose himself in. Something safe, mind, to lose himself in. Harry had still not gotten over how his heart had been broken by a Swedish exchange consultant at the Ministry. He chose to stay away from any similar temptations, having no interest whatsoever in getting his heart crumbled into tiny pieces yet again.

Therefore books were a significantly safer option.

"A red wine for you, sir." The pudgy man had returned with the biggest glass Harry had ever seen, filled with red wine. Harry smiled and thanked the apparent proprietor of the establishment.

He took a sip and enjoyed the traditional first-sip-of-alcohol chill slowly running down his spine. A feeling of promise. A feeling that signaled that everything was going to be all right.

Harry had closed his eyes and had slowly drifted off into a slumber one can only fall into when in a warm country. Drifting from sleep back into near-awakening and back again. Conscious of the sun, the soft and reassuring sounds surrounding him and the warm chill engulfing his body, brought upon by the red wine. Harry was so at ease, that he almost did not hear the soft-chilling voice so familiar to him.

He could not even distinguish what was being said – it was French, softly spoken on the other side of the terrace – but the timbre and the way lips enunciated intelligible words was one of a kind.

For a moment Harry considered jumping up and confronting the voice's owner. Then he became aware of how his body responded to the purr-like sounds. It felt soothed and shivered at the same time, like it had just felt a warm ocean breeze caressing his skin. He was enjoying his slumbering state too much to break it. He chose to keep his eyes closed, sunglasses perched on the tip of his nose and sipping the last remnants of his vin rouge.

It was only when a waiter – a good-looking dark-skinned young man – asked whether he would be interested in another beverage, that Harry finally opened his eyes again.

"Yes please, one more," Harry gestured to his empty glass which was spotted with red flecks of the wine, remnants of the liquid that had been present only minutes before.

Harry stared into two of the most enchanting eyes he had ever seen. Deep, dark brown with a twinkle that could only be described as coming straight from a Disney movie. In fact, the waiter resembled Aladdin in an eerie way.

"Right away, sir," the waiter nodded.

Harry could not keep his eyes off him, as the man walked back to the bistro's entrance, sporting a casual pair of tight-fitted jeans, showing off his physique. Nice bum, Harry's inner devil whispered.

Before the waiter entered the bistro, however, he walked over the table at the far end. The table where the familiar voice had come from. The waiter smiled at the table's occupant and seemed to brush some invisible flecks of dusts off the table.

At the table, Harry immediately recognized – just as he had known as soon as he had heard that voice – Severus Snape.

Dressed not in all-encompassing black robes, but a casual pair of khaki trousers and a freshly pressed white shirt. His hair looked less greasy and almost shiny against the backdrop of pink blossoms and the Parisian sun.

Harry guessed everyone looked better in Paris.

Just as he was about to turn his head, Severus' eyes met his.

Severus Snape has a few guilty pleasures. Not many, nor a lot. Just a few, a decent amount for a grown and serious man like himself. He is not the kind of person to easily swoon over specific foods, drink or other types of enjoyable activities. Generally speaking, Severus Snape goes out of his way to make people believe he does not particularly enjoy himself. Ever. Because he does not. Really.

At least, that was the old Severus Snape. These days, Severus has taken to actually washing his hair, thereby revealing the actual beautifully subtle hue of mahogany in his half-long locks of hair. And it is not just his hair. Severus has shaken off his symbolic cloth of grayness and perceived depression. He would not call himself happy – _God, no_ – but he would not disagree if someone would call him content. Complacent about his life, perhaps. Even.

That is why Severus has taken to travelling. Each month or so, he packs his snake-embroidered Ralph Lauren weekend bag and catches a plane to a new, or familiar European city. He books a room with a big bath tub in one of his favourite Raddison hotels and enjoys two or three nights in a large and culturally-challenging city. Paris is among his favourites – he visits the French capital at least twice a year. (He also adores Stockholm, a capital generally so cold everyone is used to snuggling inside in front of fireplaces and on bearskin rugs whilst supping rum-infused mugs of hot chocolate. One of Severus' only few guilty pleasures.)

When he gets to one of these destinations, Severus Snape does not get up to much. After drinking coffee at the airport and getting a cab to his hotel, he does not get up to much. He always dines in a fancy restaurant, enjoying a good bottle of local red wine and afterwards he takes a bath in his hotel room. After which he does not get up to much.

At this moment, he is doing just that: enjoying a class of wine at one of his favourite bistros in Paris.

Two years ago he ended up chatting to a charming young man in a night club around the corner from his then hotel. Michèl, his name was. A delightfully simple and undemanding kind of man. With his dark hair and green eyes he had still managed to somehow awaken a passion long euthanised in Severus' icy heart.

That night was a good night. A memorable one.

Michèl turned out to work for Monsieur Lachappelle, who owned a little bistro along the Seine, Les Petites Belettes. And even though Severus Snape and Michèl's relationship did not go any further than one memorable night, Severus still enjoyed meeting him at Les Belettes. It had grown into one of his favourite hang-outs in Paris, he would always pop by and share a glass or two. Either with Michèl, or with Jacques Lachappelle.

At this very moment, he had just finished his glass of Pinot Noir when he spotted Michèl. Although already 32 years of age, Severus still appreciated his youthful French appeal. With gay freckles and a naïve smile always playing on his lips, Michèl was simply one of those men who will always be boy.

"Mais que!" Michèl shouted out in the most homosexual of ways. The man was obviously pleased by seeing Severus Snape again.

"Severus!" he exclaimed, pronouncing Severus' name as if he were some sort of exotic warlord – with admiration and a hint of a growl.

Severus smiled and got up to give Michèl a traditional French kiss on the cheek. The two men held each other in a brief and friendly embrace before Michèl sat himself down next to Severus. It was time to take his break anyway.

"So, _mon ami_, tell me all about your life, what had been going on?" Michèl poured himself a glass of red wine from the big pitcher he had been carrying around.

Harry had lit cigarette after cigarette, keeping his eyes inconspicuously locked on the dark haired man – a memory from his past – whose behaviour started to look more odd and odd by the minute. A dashing young man – whose appearance screamed 'gay' to even a blind man – and who apparently worked here, had sat himself down with Severus. After greeting each other in a way so passionate, Harry almost chocked on his wine. Now they had been speaking in hushed voices, casually touching each other's arm or shoulder.

Harry had starting imagining Severus had run into his long-lost lover here in Paris. A young and way-too-out-of-his-league kind of man, someone who Severus had lost his heart to. Probably a Swedish man, Harry's pride muttered heart-brokenly.

Harry enjoyed writing stories with his mind, creating elaborate life tales for people he would see walking down the street, who somehow stimulated his creativity. The last couple of years, Harry had been content with being one of life's spectators. He felt like he was standing in a theatre, watching other people live the lives and create the stories he used to be a part of. Now he just stood there, mesmerized by other people's lives, loves and tragedies.

Life had become like reading a book. Safely tucked away in bed, snuggled into comfort and fearless sanctity with his little cat (Sala, he was called, a beautiful dark-haired Siamese), Harry could live the wildest of his lives and encounter his greatest passions. Without ever feeling that fear again.

Harry shook his head. He hated being scared. He hated that feeling of stress, slowly working its way up his spine and infusing every aspect of his life with having-to-be-on-edge. He had been like that and he had liked it. Or: he had told himself he liked it.

After he had met Mads, the most witty and charming man he had ever seen, Harry had always been afraid of losing him. He could not imagine being without him. And barely thinking about it, had made Harry quiver with fear. And then, of course, he did lose him.

So Harry did stories. Mental stories. Safe, non-quivering with fear stories. _Severus Snape, away on an illicit holiday to France, running into the love of his life along the Seine_.

Harry sipped his wine. Yes – this story was going to be good.

Severus and Michèl had chatted for more than an hour when Monsieur Lachapelle started shouting that it was time for Michèl to go back to work. The empty tables had filled themselves with thirsty customers. It was a beautiful day, with late smells of summer – overripe fruits, pre-fall leaves and warm wine – tickling the nostrils of the Parisians. So logically, a table at Les Petites Belettes was in demand.

Severus and Michèl said their goodbyes and Severus received a final glass of deep dark red wine on the house.

Michèl had a boyfriend these days, the potions master had learned. He was happy for his friend, yet could not help but feel – well, something. He could not really put it in words. It was not jealousy – no, Severus was not jealous of people being in relationships – but it was a small, dark tick. Right in the middle of his stomach. Like a tiny squirrel had punched him in the gut. Without him knowing.

Severus sighed and looked around at the trees and tables – a technique he once read in a self-help book – in order to shake off the dark ponderous thoughts that were trying to fight their way into his beautiful day. If you had unproductive thoughts, you could stop them by just looking around and describing everything you see, simply and concretely. He was not going to let the unproductive thoughts ruin his moment that had – just minutes ago – had been simply wonderful.

Severus' eyes wandered across the chequered table cloths ("red and white squares covering small and rounded wooden tables"), past the drinks ("a half-empty glass with red wine, next to a large carafe") and over the bodies of the customers enjoying the French sun ("a dark-haired young man wearing fitted jeans and a dark-blue jumper, drinking red wine while smoking a cigarette and-"). Mid-sentence Severus froze. He knew those lips. He recognized that tousled hair look.

That was Harry – bloody – Potter.

All unproductive thoughts in the world came rushing back. Screw describing concrete things: the only concrete thing that Severus could see was right here: it was Harry – friggin – Potter.

The last time they had met was chaotic to say the least. Harry could never really accept the role Severus had played in the war. He had still blamed him for Dumbledore's death and all dark acts that came out of the war.

The last time they had met, they had stood in the Great Hall, silently grunting at each other. It had all been too much. Too much pain, too complicated and just – too much to put into any words or any action. Harry had given Severus a note. A note Severus had never read. And that had been it.

And now here he was. Harry – damn it – Potter. In _his_ Paris. In his sacred corner of the world. Harry – blasted – Potter.

Severus did the only thing he could do. He downed his glass of wine, stood up and walked over to Harry's table.

Harry almost choked on his cigarette when he saw Severus get up and – with very determined strides – walk over to his table. The dark-haired man towered over him when he had reached Harry's little table.

"Mister Potter," Severus whispered. It sounded exactly like the very first time he had said Harry's name.

"Profess- Severus," Harry replied.

He felt a bit feverish, but luckily he had consumed enough wine by now to still come across as a sane adult.

"May I?" Severus asked, pointing at the vacant chair.

"Yes, yes, of course."

Before Harry knew it, Severus had installed himself on the chair uncomfortably close to Harry and poured himself a glass of wine from the carafe Harry had ordered.

"So," Severus started. "This is something."

It was the understatement of the century. Harry cradled his glass of wine as if his life depended on it, slowly taking sips as if it was the only medicine to this intense and urgent illness that had befallen him.

"Yes, it is."

"How small are the odds of me running into you, in Paris." Severus shook his head. "Such small odds. And yet, it happens."

Harry finished his glass of wine and lit another cigarette.

"Yeah, I guess this pretty awkward." Harry sucked in the nicotine of his cigarette, feeling the soothing rush of the alcohol calming down his heart and slowly releasing the tension built up in his muscles.

"How have you been?" Severus asked, with a tone Harry had never heard before. It sounded sincere.

And Harry did not know why, but somehow he felt inclined to actually reply with the truth.

"Pretty bad, actually. You?"

"Not too good either. But I get by."

Harry giggled. It was high-pitched, almost hysterical giggle. "Ridiculous, isn't it? We save the wizarding world and end up as two miserable singletons, drinking our sorrows away."

He continued: "If I had known this was going to be the reward for sacrificing my life and saving millions, I would have opted out for sure."

Severus' dark green eyes seemed to smile. "I understand. I haven't been having the time of my life either. People still see what they want to see, even though I have been officially cleared of any war crimes. It still lingers. And I don't think it'll ever go away."

Severus sighed. "That's why I travel. To get away from it all and to immerse myself in Muggle culture. It soothes me."

Harry smiled. "My friends forced me on this trip. To get me out of the house, after my last boyfr –" He stopped himself. Talking to Severus Snape was one thing, but coming out to him was another.

It was, however, already too late. Harry noticed a subtle smirk on Severus' lips.

"Don't worry, your 'secret' is safe with me." Severus added air quotations to the word 'secret'. "Although anyone too blind to say you are as gay as they come frankly deserve to live in oblivion for the rest of their lives." Severus winked.

"Excuse me? I am not a _gay_ gay!" Harry held up his hands in a defensive gesture. "And if we are accusing anyone of being gay here, we should be pointing the finger at you, Mr. Flirting-with-innocent-French-boys."

"Me? Flir-ting?" Severus drew out the last word, allowing the final syllable to drip off his tongue like sticky treacle sponge. "And Mr. Potter, which innocent am I accused of luring into my lair?"

Harry's cheeks had started to flush a dark pink – it was the wine, for sure – and somehow he felt mightily uncomfortable discussing facts that he would have normally only talked about with men he was flirting with in bars. Back in the days, when he still did things like that.

Severus Snape looked a lot different now than he had done at Hogwarts. Fresh and shiny hair, his sullen expression morphed into one that showed professionalism and charisma and his fashion sense had obviously improved. His white shirt actually gave Severus the aura of a successful business man travelling casually.

"Well, that guy," Harry shook his head in the direction of Michèl, who was scurrying around with bottles of wine and tiny cups of espresso.

"Ah, that is indeed my former lover, Michèl," Severus said softly, anticipating Harry's response eagerly. The much-awaited shock, however, did not come.

"He is quite fit," Harry however remarked and smiled.

Harry smiled such an honest and open smile, Severus could not help himself but to smile back. Maybe it wasn't so bad. All of it.

"Would you like some more to drink?" Severus asked, gesturing towards the empty glass on the table.

He had noticed Harry's initial discomfort, but somehow, being here with this renowned ex-student of his, he felt more alive than he had done in a while. Maybe it was their shared history, maybe it was their shared fear and anxiety. Actually, Severus did not care. For the first time in a long time, he felt like not caring and just being.

Harry nodded. "Yes please."

They drank more glasses of wine before ordering a cappuccino to sober up enough. Hours had passed by and Severus and Harry had lost themselves in each other's stories. The one more relatable than the other.

"Would you care for a stroll along the river? I know a nice little restaurant downtown, if you fancy?"

Harry nodded and accidentally brushed against Severus' arm. During their entire conversation they had cleverly steered away from frisky references or salacious topics. It had been proper and very decent.

Harry's innocent touch, however, made Severus feel anything but decent and proper. Tingles, trickles and sparks running up and down his spine, making him feel like he just got electrified.

Severus coughed, to make his shivers go unnoticed.

"Yes, I would like that very much, Severus," Harry stressed Severus' name – which only made the older man shiver even more.

After Severus Snape had said goodbye to Michèl and Monsieur Lachapelle and paid the bill – he was traditional like that – the two of them set off along the Seine. It was late afternoon by now and the last rays of sun were gradually disappearing behind the building along the river. Winds that were premonishing fall were wafting through the air, cooling down the hotness of the daylight sun.

Harry lit a cigarette.

"It is absolutely gorgeous here."

They stopped and leaned against the bridge.

"I agree." Severus nodded.

"I wish it could be this moment, you know. For always."

Severus stood next to Harry, looking over the water flowing past.

"I understand."

"No, I don't think you do. The last couple of years have been emptiness. The best I have been able to feel were the days where was able _not_ think of just stopping it all. The only reason I never did was guilt – I could never leave Hermione and Ron, they would blame themselves forever. And now, this day, I have felt alive again. Maybe it's the wine and I should take up alcoholism." Harry snorted and forced himself to smile.

"And I know this is more than I should be telling you, and I am scaring you away. The two of us, randomly meeting like this. It sounds like an art house movie. And it will end tragically, but I do not care."

Severus moved closer to Harry, their thighs softly brushing against each other. He grabbed Harry's left hand and just held it. The sensation was overwhelming. The chills and shivers came rushing back to Severus' skin, overpowering any other sensational experience.

"It's okay, I understand more than you will ever be able to understand."

Harry's thumb slowly traced the inside of Severus' palm, the most subtle and mind-blowing movement Severus had ever experienced.

Harry did not know why he did it. Or what made him do it. It must have been Paris, the wine, the sun and that powerful feeling of wanting to hold on to that moment. That feeling that talking to Severus had given him. That feeling of wanting it all again. Of choosing life.

He turned his head to the left, where Severus was standing, holding his hand. He looked into those dark green eyes and lost himself in them. His heart was pounding, its force pulsing through his entire body. He took a small step into Severus' direction – they were already standing so close – and reached forward. His face was centimeters away from Severus Snape's, for a second. He could feel his hair tickling the skin of his face. Those dark green eyes still so mesmerising.

And then he just did it. He went for it. He kissed Severus on the lips. Oh-so softly. And quickly.

But then he could not break away. And neither did Severus. They just stood there, holding on to each other and the bridge along the Seine, with their lips softly pressed against each other. Taking in each other's smells, textures and senses.

Harry was surprised by the softness of Severus' hair, the sleekness his skin – it reminded him of the Egyptian cotton sheets in his hotel room – and the intoxicating spiciness of his smell.

After a few minutes Harry had to break the spell. He needed some air.

He smiled shyly at Severus and touched his swollen lips. "Sorry."

"Come, let's have dinner," said Severus and grabbed Harry's hand before pulling him along with him. Along the Seine, towards a restaurant.

_Fin_


End file.
